Page 68 of Failure to Match

“To get you that broom,” he replied dryly.

“I can just walk there.”

“You don’t even know where it is.”

My mouth twitched. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

As it turned out, the broom closet was on the second floor of the penthouse. It was also not a broom closet.

I gave Jackson the most dry, unimpressed look I could muster as he placed me down on the couch… in what could only be his bedroom.

“Stay,” he ordered.

I was on my feet the second he disappeared into the ensuite. I didn’t know what he had planned, but there was a good chance I’d regret not making my sleuthy escape when I had the chance.

Unfortunately, I didn’t even make it to the stairs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked when I was, once again, swept off my unsteady feet.

“Ability to follow simple instructions: abysmally inadequate.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You can’t just grab women without asking permission first.”

“Haven’t heard any complaints so far.”

“I don’t know if I’ve told you this yet, but I swear sometimes you’re just one giant walking red flag.”

His throat worked with a light chuckle. Bow tie.

“You should put that in my file,” he said.

I was placed on the dark leather couch again. This time Jackson took a seat beside me, inserting himself right into my personal space.

“Do we really need to be sitting this close?”

“Where did you hit your head?” he asked, leaning in another inch. His scent was everywhere, lingering on my skin.

“Right... here.” I felt around until I found the bruised spot. A bump was already starting to form and there was a bunch of glass stuck in my curls, but at least there was no blood.

“Does it hurt?”

My fingers went still. “Why?” What was his angle?

His mouth slanted into a half-smile. “You really don’t trust me.”

Not even a little. “We’ve already gone over this.”

“And you’re not... impressed by me. At all.”

I scrunched my brows as my fingers started to prod at my bump again. It hurt when I touched it. So why did I keep touching it?

“Do you hear yourself when you say stuff like that?” I asked. “Like, do you hear how arrogant you sound?”

His half-smile widened. “And you don’t like that, either. The arrogance.”

My hand dropped. Why was he acting so weird? “Is this part of the making-my-life-miserable thing?” Or was he still trying to disarm me?

He chuckled, then reached up and plucked a shiny piece of glass out of my hair. “And how did you think our date went?” he asked, completely ignoring my question.

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